


Loving Harry Potter

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Muggles have a god they believe died to save them: I bet he didn't look like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving Harry Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted April 15, 2013 on [Livejournal](writcraft.livejournal.com/52000.html?thread=609312) for writcraft's Harry Potter Appreciation Meme.

The Muggles have a god who they believe died to save them: I bet he didn't look like this - hedgehog-haired, a sleepy-eyed lout, scratching his belly in a pair of old sweatpants while waiting for the tea to boil. The ridiculous boy makes it the Muggle way every time and just shrugs when I suggest that wizards use magic.

Of course, it's different when he's in uniform. Then he's all sinewy grace, wand ever-poised and ready to strike terror into the black little hearts of wrong-doers. His magic crackles around him, his Auror's robes seeming to swirl with it, a poster boy for constant vigilance. No-one would know he has a fondness for kissing the cheeks of fat babies. I've seen him go all misty-eyed when entrusted with the latest Weasley offspring for inspection. He's also a demon for snuggling. I believe it's his mission in life to try to Gryffindor the rest of us into submission, until we all roll over and present him with our soft underbellies to tickle. It works, too.

I admit it: I adore the things that once made me detest him. The ruddy nerve of him, his unhesitating impetus. The way he blitzes in, and is done and dusted and hang the consequences, while I'm still weighing up the most prudent way to proceed. It's infuriating, yes - pigheaded, foolish, reckless - I sometimes think he would rather do _anything_ , no matter how random, than equivocate. But Merlin, it gets me fired up. I find him endlessly provoking. It's simply lucky for both of us that these days he provokes me to passion rather than violence.

Sometimes I see the little boy in him, the soft-cheeked, wide-eyed thing that arrived at Hogwarts, looking like he'd never dreamed such wonders could exist. He still finds the thrill in life; he appreciates every day as one he thought he'd never live to see. I see that little boy live in him when he's yelling his lungs out in the Quidditch stands on a Saturday. When he licks his spoon after a slice of treacle tart, his tongue seeking out the last remnants of sweetness. Or sometimes in the morning, if I wake early with the light filtering in through the curtains, his head nestled trustingly against the pillow, sooty lashes closed and soft lips gently open, his face unguarded.

Those times I see the same boy who was neglected, loathed, imprisoned by those Dursley fuckers on a daily basis. Yes, I know I tormented him too. Do you believe I don't think about that? The crunch of bone underfoot is a sound that often stalks through my dreams, for instance. But I was a child, raised in demented bigotry. They were adults, and charged with his care.

On those occasions, I think: _bring me those unspeakable bastards, so I can let the Unforgivables fly, and I wouldn't care if they tore my throat on the way out, either_. Yes, well. It's a good job I don't know where they are and that Harry dissuades me from looking. I'm not convinced even he could save me from Azkaban a second time.

There are other times, more toothsome than these harsh pleasures: none but I get to taste the honeyed throb of his mouth against mine. To relish the strength and the tenderness of his touch on my body, to be held in the warmth of his gaze. When the door to his heart swung open, I basked in the garden of delights I found inside. Here is the place I can flourish and grow.

Then, when he undresses, I want to fall to my knees in worship. Sometimes I do. The privilege of resting the Saviour's cock on my unworthy tongue. My eyes flutter closed and I moan at the heady taste of this absolution; to please him is the sweetest penance.

I sometimes think he's in the marrow of my bones, this impossible man. I feel him beating in my veins like fire; I breathe, and feel him rushing in to fill my lungs with a painful joy. He makes me do insane things; makes me _feel_ insane things. Is that what love is? If it is, then I love Harry Potter, and it seems I won't stop until I am in my grave.


End file.
